Single Serving Jack
by Sentiospoot
Summary: In which Dick Grayson takes up underground boxing.


He doesn't remember how exactly it started.

In the dark, wet heat of the basement, nobody recognizes Dick Grayson. Even without the mask, he's masked; he's barefoot and shirtless and still feels entirely hidden. Nobody looks at him. He isn't a person until he steps up to fight.

Locked in the crowd, Dick remembers summers spent sleeping in dogpiles, pressed against the sweat-slick bodies of acrobats and clowns on linoleum trailer floors. The metal walls would echo with the sounds of men breathing, and the puffs of moisture left beads on his skin, crawling down his back and making his hair stand on end. The closeness used to make him feel vulnerable. Now Dick is grown, and his body ripples with whipcord muscle, hardened to a weapon. Now he never feels vulnerable.

Or he _rarely_ does, at least.

When he steps into the center of the circle, he's already sweating. He doesn't have to ask for a match; somebody just steps out, brings his fists up and smiles. Dick knows he's small, and his opponent is easily twice his size, but these guys fight enough to know that doesn't make the match. The people at fight clubs are tough and unpredictable, rabid, and they want a real fight. This isn't going to be the kind of careful spar Bruce would give him. His opponent is going to be running on brute instinct, and very likely won't stop unless he's close to death. He's here to get hurt as much as to hurt someone.

Dick isn't sure why _he's_ here, yet. It doesn't matter. He raises his fists and smiles back, invites the guy closer, and braces his body for impact.

Dick usually lets the other guy take the first swing. That was something Bruce taught him to do; let them swing and dodge, at the beginning. Get a feel for what they're going to do. They act, you react. Being the one that sets the pattern makes you vulnerable in the long run.

"Alright, prettyboy," the opponent growls, and when his fist connects with Dick's stomach it sends his whole body lurching backward. Dick never takes the dodge at fight club. That's not what fight club is about. "Let's see what you've got, eh?"

"Usually I'm the talker," Dick huffs back. He straightens into a boxing position; it isn't his usual M.O. but it's the way things are, here. When the guy swings at him again, Dick blocks, letting his arm take the brunt of the blow and diving in toward the stomach. The only way to win against a guy this much bigger than him - the only way without the acrobatic flair of his training - is to get him unbalanced. Dick has to knock him over.

His hit is obviously a lot harder than the guy expected, because he reels from it. Dick waits for his foot to lift, for him to take the step back to regain his balance; he strikes again in the moment his opponent is relying on one leg to hold him up.

Naturally, the guy topples, landing hard on his tailbone with a hiss of either pain or frustration. Dick gives him a hard kick, right on the nose, and it crumples underneath his bare foot with a loud, echoing _crunch_ , gets the guy on his back. There's already blood pouring out, now, but Dick still has to scramble to get on top of his opponent before the guy can stand back up. These types won't stay down for long even with a broken nose.

Once Dick is straddling his waist, pinning his shoulders to the floor as blood bubbles into his gasping mouth, once the power is all in Dick's hands - that's when the real game starts.

He knows the guy is going to try to lift him, but Dick is planted firm, immovable. He digs his nails hard into the guy's shoulders and bends down to speak in his ear. "How long do you think you'll hold out, buddy?"

The guy sputters, mostly because of the blood draining out all over his face. He looks confused; this is exactly where Dick knew they'd be within thirty seconds, but his opponent was blatantly not expecting the same. Still, he bares his teeth like he's in control. The guys at fight club are all gluttons for punishment and Dick is well-versed in doling it out.

"Okay," Dick says, louder for the crowd that's been hooting and hollering in the backdrop. Maybe that's why he does this; maybe he likes fighting in front of a crowd. Maybe he likes that this is where anonymity and attention intersect, where he can stand in a spotlight and still be unseen. Where he can be a legend for a night and nobody will ever talk about it again.

Dick was born a performer, and maybe he's sick of sticking to the shadows, even though that's the only place he belongs anymore.

He makes a show of winding up before he brings his fist down on the guy's jaw.

The resulting _pop_ is satisfyingly loud and sends the crowd into hysterics. Dick thinks of his first night here, talking to a guy with dog tags and a mangled face who told him nobody actually fights the person they're fighting; "You always see somebody else," he said, "You always see the person you actually want to punch." That's never happened for Dick - he's been in far too many fights for that kind of distraction - but sometimes he wonders who he'd see if it did.

As heat throbs through his body, as his hands pound against this man with loud, fleshy _smack_ s, he knows exactly who it would be. But the thought is ungrateful and unfortunate so he refuses to acknowledge it, even in the back parts of his mind that are only awake while he fights.

His opponent howls, squirming from underneath Dick's hold. He reaches up and rakes his nails down Dick's bare back, which might hurt like hell if Dick didn't have a meticulously trained pain tolerance. In a split-second bout of petty vengeance, he decides to retaliate by bending down and biting, hard, on the shell of the guy's ear, until he tastes blood in his mouth, until the guy writhes.

"What the _fuck_?" his opponent snarls, shoving hard against Dick's sternum. When Dick is pushed back, he takes a chunk of ear with him, which seems to surprise them both into silence for a moment.

The crowd goes apeshit. Dick grins.

"Stop!" his opponent shrieks, scrabbling against the cement floor to get away. "Stop! I yield! Stop! Jesus Christ." Dick reaches up to take the hunk of flesh out of his mouth, spitting out the warm, metallic taste of blood. He thinks his back is bleeding from the scratching, but he's got nothing on the other guy, who's drenched in blood, whose face is already starting to swell.

"Good match," Dick chirps. The next guy is already stepping into the circle, so he's going to have to move soon, but for a moment he basks in the shouts and cheers of an audience.

His opponent looks at him incredulously, holding his mangled ear. "Yeah," he mutters.

The crowd roars.


End file.
